The room fell quiet while they watched Craig thinking. What good would it have done for Liam to tell him? He was a good operational officer who hadn’t lost sight of Leighton from the moment that he’d hit London on Wednesday. Craig couldn’t have done any better himself.
And Bob Leighton wasn’t on bail; they didn’t even believe that he’d harmed his wife, so how could they have prevented him from going anywhere, even if he had seen the list last night? The truth was that they couldn’t have. Leighton could go to Timbuktu and they would be powerless to stop him.
Craig shot Liam a quick look without the others noticing and they both knew what it meant. ‘Keep me informed.’ Liam nodded imperceptibly in reply, knowing that it was a minor slip that could have been much bigger. Annette was still talking in the background.
“But, sir. Where can he get to from Donegal? He has to fly from somewhere and they’ve no airport.”
“Oh yes they do, Cutty. There are domestic flights to Dublin and Glasgow from Donegal Airport, near Carrickfin.”
Craig looked at Liam surprised, he’d never heard of it. Liam’s local knowledge was impressive. He nodded in respect, and continued. “He wouldn’t get far from there, Annette. But once he’s in the Republic he can travel around anywhere by road or train, and then fly from any one of nine airports.”
“But s...sir, we have an extradition agreement with the Republic.” Davy’s face said that he didn’t think it was fair.
“We do Davy, but Bob Leighton isn’t a criminal. And even if he was, any border transfer would take time. No, I think we’ve seen the last of Mr Leighton. He intends to get as far away from here as possible.”
Annette was surprised at Craig’s apparent lack of concern.
“But that will destroy our case, sir. We’ll never find Irene Leighton’s killer without him. And what about Kaisa? We haven’t ruled her out. She has no alibi for two days.”
Craig smiled quietly. “Leighton didn’t kill her, Annette. And we’ve plenty of other roads to our killer. The bullet, the print, D.N.A, tattoos...we’re a long way from running out of leads. And call it a hunch, but I don’t think we’ve seen the last of Ms Moldeau. She doesn’t sound the type to suit exile. My bet is that she’ll be bored with Bob Leighton long before he leaves Ireland.”
Chapter Twelve
Portsalon Donegal. Friday.
Kaisa propped herself up on one elbow and watched him. He slept like a child, curled up on his right side, with his left arm across his chest, as if he was guarding his heart. She’d decided months ago that he was quite good-looking, in a pale skinny way. His red-brown hair curled up at the base of his neck, just above the top of his spine, revealing the soft, vulnerable space in between. He was so unlike her Stevan, but not completely repulsive.
She watched and waited, her face expressionless, ready to morph into a facsimile of love as soon as he awoke. She knew what love was supposed to look like, God knows she’d been force-fed enough romantic movies by men over the years. Dragging her along to see them, as if it was hard-wired into the female psyche to like dreary stories of love and loss. All they did was make her yawn and long for a Wesley Snipes DVD.
But enduring them had served its purpose. She’d sat through them all, hugging their arms, looking up at the big strong men, sucking them into her net, to protect and adore her. Just long enough to give her what she needed.
In return, they’d taught her how people in love were supposed to behave. She knew exactly what was expected of her. That had always been her talent; she always knew what was expected of her. She’d never felt romantic love, but who cared, they could keep it. The only thing she loved, apart from Stevan, was money. And she took any currency.
Kaisa saw his eyelids flicker and she composed her face, leaning in to kiss his cheek, in what she thought was a nice touch. “Good morning sleepy–boy” whispered in her husky voice should have the desired effect. She’d been told that her voice made men weak; it definitely worked on this one.
Bob Leighton opened his eyes and thought that he’d died and gone to heaven. She was still there. Gorgeous, smiling, pretty and pliable, the perfect woman. And he was going to have her for good; he didn’t give a shit what anyone thought. So what if she wasn’t educated, or rich. He didn’t care, she was all his. He couldn’t believe that they’d only met five months before.
What if they hadn’t met? What if she hadn’t been their neighbours’ nanny? He’d never understood how they’d let her go. The wife was jealous, he supposed. He didn’t care; their loss had been his gain. He shuddered, thinking of what he might have missed and she saw the movement, covering him quickly with the duvet in feigned concern.
“Are you cold, my love? Shall I make breakfast?”
He kissed her gently, pushing her soft white-blonde hair back from her face. Her eyes were soft and liquid, a light strong green, and her clear skin tanned so easily in the sun that she looked like a berry, even in December. She was beautiful, but not in the over-the-top, Essex way that lots of young women were. She was quietly, softly beautiful and she was perfect for him.
He looked past her at the clock on the bedside table, 10am! Oh shit. He would be late for his meeting. He pushed her arm down gently and looked reluctantly at the pert brown breast that had escaped its wrapping, nearly lying back down again. Fighting the urge hard he leapt up, heading quickly across the weathered maple floor to the ensuite. He looked at his bleary eyes in the fluorescent mirror, he looked sixty. They’d arrived late last night and he’d had a skin-full, but she’d been drinking too, yet she still looked as fresh as a flower.
“Sorry pet, I have to run. I’ve a meeting that’ll be very important for both our futures.”
The future again. He smiled at the surprise that she’d get later, once everything was settled. Kaisa knew what was expected of her and obliged, faking a disappointed pout.
“But when you be back? I want cook something special.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be back around four, plenty of time. Let’s go out. I could take you to the new place in Rathmullan?”
Such sophistication. But she had other plans. “No, I have all planned, you will see. We have romantic dinner here. ”
Her broken English did things to him that no Irish accent ever had, and he had visions of a naked feast in front of the large, open fire downstairs.
“That sounds like a plan. Excellent. What time do you want me home?”
“Only at seven, all will be ready.” She smiled up at him coyly. “I will be ready...”
The promise was implicit and he reached over and kissed her on the forehead, lingering for a longer time on her lips. “I’ll see you at seven then, and I’ll bring some champagne. If all goes well today we’ll have plenty to celebrate.”
Ten minutes later, they walked down the open Scandinavian staircase to the front room., with its wall of windows over-looking the North Atlantic inlet with the second most beautiful beach in the world. Then she stood like a good little girlfriend, waving him off, as he drove out of the private driveway of their rented villa, and disappeared quickly at the end of the lane.
Kaisa looked around the luxurious home. He had a lot of Euro, this Bob. And she’d take some of them with her, just for having to put up with his pale, weak hands on her last night. She’d been avoiding his touch for months.
But his money wasn’t her reason for being there. She looked out at the ocean, thinking. The sunshine was hitting the rocks immediately below the window, and in the distance she could just make out a horse and rider cantering along the smooth, white sand. So many pretty places in this little country. It was very beautiful, yes, but too cold for her in winter, maybe they could head for Dubai when this was all over.
She’d played the part of the lonely little Estonian for six months now, breaking her perfect English just enough to make people feel protective, but not frustrated. And always sticking to the rules that Stevan had taught her. Always give people what they expected. It didn’t do to confuse them
too much. And always say that you came from some Eastern European or Nordic country. Most people in Britain couldn’t tell them apart, believing whatever they were told. So she had become Estonian Kaisa Moldeau and now she was Bob’s little Kaisa.
She’d played it well. She’d got the job she needed, au pair to the Leighton’s boring neighbours. And then she’d tempted the husband just enough for the frosty wife to pass her on to the Leightons. She felt a sudden sadness about Irene Leighton. The emotion was unexpected because she so rarely felt anything, but Irene had been kind to her, genuinely kind. She was genuinely sad that she’d gone, and for her part in it.
The feeling passed as quickly as it came and she thought about Bob Leighton. Such a self-important little man, but then, weren’t they all. She laughed aloud, amused by herself. She was glad that it would end tomorrow after the months of pretence; it would be time to leave soon. But it had been worth it all to give Stevan cover. All the smiling and last night’s limp fucking, tolerating his wet weak hands. All worth it for the pleasure they would get when their job was done.
She lifted a cheap pink mobile from her handbag and slowly dialled the number to arrange next Monday’s meeting. It rang only once, picked up quickly by the eager man at the other end. She inhaled, letting it out slowly in an old trick, a breathless quality in her voice the predictable outcome. “Hello, Jo-es-eph.” Lingering very deliberately over the additional syllable.
Joe Watson’s heart jumped with excitement at the sound of her voice and he stood-up quickly, closing the office door. It wouldn’t do for Michael to overhear.
“Ausra...It’s lovely to hear your voice. Where are you?”
“At my father house. He is not well today.” There was silence as she counted to three, then spoke at exactly the right time for effect. “I mees you, Joe.”
Joe nearly shouted aloud with excitement, this was what love felt like. He remembered it from Irene. Sadness broke through for a moment making him silent, but nothing could ruin this feeling.
Her vulnerable voice pulled him back to the moment. “Joe, do you not love me?”
He stared at the phone forgetting the past and tripping over his words. “Of course I love you. I love you. I really love you, Ausra. What time will you be there on Monday?”
She smiled smugly to herself, completely in control. “At six, I think. And Joe...”
“Yes?”
“I maybe see you Tuesday also, would that be good?”
He gripped the phone hard, unable to believe his luck. Two days next week, they’d finally have time to talk. He had a lot to say.
“Yes, of course. And Wednesday too if you can. And Thursday.”
She rewarded him with a pretty laugh and his heart sailed away, already thinking of next week.
***
Stevan wiped the blue cloth over the table, looking out through the coloured glass window of the saloon bar on Belfast’s busy Ormeau Road. The mahogany wall clock said that it was time to open up, so he took the heavy keys from his jeans pocket, musing.
Nineteen years ago, he’d lived in a forest. Seven months ago, they were playing the tables in Las Vegas. And now here he was, wiping up slops from a table in Belfast’s Ormeau Road. Life was never predictable. He laughed loudly, showing his large, white teeth to the empty room.
He was a striking man, with tanned skin and hard muscles, and the strong high cheekbones of his home country. His laugh was so loud that it brought Teresa running-in from the back bar.
“What’re you laughing at Stevan? Go ‘awn, tell me the joke.”
He looked down at her, eighteen and pretty, thinking that she knew all about life. The things I could tell you, little girl.
“I laugh only at myself.” Then, looking down at the wet cloth in his hand. “It is such a glamorous life we have - no?”
“No! You’re right there. Just think about it, for the float in that till we could be lying on a beach, instead of serving booze to a pack of drunken students.”
She looked reluctantly at the clock. “Aye well. That’s that dream over. We’d better open up soon or my Da’ will be chasing us.”
Stevan smiled to himself. Poor little Teresa, she tried so hard to be a street girl. When really her father owned this and many other bars, dotted around Belfast and the outlying towns. It pleased her to pretend that she was ‘cool’, when her natural accent had been ironed-out years before by expensive elocution lessons. Only descending to street level when her father left the premises, to give her ‘cred’ with her friends.
She even talked about students as if she wasn’t one of them, and all to impress him. Dropping her vocabulary to a level that she thought would make him feel easy. If only she knew.
Of course, she had a crush on him, which was always useful. She thought that he was exotic and exciting, and asked him constantly what Romania was like. How the fuck would he know? He was from Serbia! But he made up stories of nameless mountain streams anyway, to keep her happy. He hated disappointing women.
He was safe saying that he came from anywhere east of Italy. They couldn’t tell one Slavic country from another in Belfast; we all look the same to them.
He thought fleetingly of Kaisa. She would be leaving Donegal soon for her next appointment, setting the scene for his part. He wished desperately that she didn’t have to. That he didn’t either.
He turned back to the moment and looked down at the girl’s high, firm breasts pushing through her tight t-shirt. It had got incrementally tighter by the month, since he’d arrived. She wasn’t bad to look at, in that slightly gauche, student way. His taste usually ran more to more angular beauties, but she passed the time, and kept him safe from her father’s prying eyes. He could cope with screwing her a bit longer, and they would leave very soon now. After he had done his final job.
***
Kaisa lifted the bag that she had concealed behind the wardrobe and withdrew the items that she needed for the evening. Her seduction outfit, well, she might as well give him a good time. The glass phial full of clear fluid. She held it up towards the late afternoon light. It was beautiful; clear and sparkling, just like Cristal.
And of course, she mustn’t forget the most important item of all, the piece de résistance that would finally end Robert Leighton’s dishonest existence. The syringe with its nine-centimetre needle. Long enough to reach straight through his pale little nipple, through the fat and muscle of his weak chest wall and skewer his shrivelled little heart.
Even if she’d been capable of feeling remorse, she wouldn’t have wasted any on Bob Leighton. Not after the way he’d forgotten his kind wife so quickly and screwed her last night. And much more importantly than any of that, he had outlived his value.
Chapter Thirteen
John adjusted his tie nervously and looked in the mirror. Not bad. He hadn’t worn one for a while and he’d thought that he might have forgotten how to tie the knot. But it had come back to him. It was like driving, arriving at your destination without remembering the route that you’d taken, but knowing that if you actually thought too much about it you’d get lost.
Natalie looked up at him, knowing exactly what he was thinking and smiling wryly. She shook her head fondly at her genius boyfriend, knowing that in the thirty seconds it had taken him to fix his tie he’d have had more ideas than the average person had in a week. But he’d still forget to tie his laces and fall over at the end of the hall.
“And don’t worry about Mirella, she’s lovely, just a bit full-on at first meeting.”
The comment came out of the blue but John’s tone said that it was a continued conversation, and Natalie knew that the first part had just taken place inside his head.
She shrugged gently. “I’m not worried about her; she sounds just like my Mum. She’ll have your bank account details out of you by the end of a handshake.”
John swallowed nervously, that was next weekend’s treat. He looked down at Natalie, taking in her softly tousled dark hair and bright emerald-green dress,
making her visible from half a street away. The colour scheme was coupled with a wide white grin that wrinkled up her snub nose and pale blue eyes. The whole effect was ‘friendly leprechaun’ instead of fiercely intelligent surgeon. She reminded him of his mother and he smiled. But more importantly this evening, she was just as eccentric as Mirella Craig. They would get on fine.
***
Kaisa smiled down at him coldly but Bob Leighton completely missed the change in temperature, focusing on the moonlight outlining the curve of her tanned smooth waist and the treasures that it bordered. He had a momentary twinge of guilt about Irene and Kaisa saw it passing rapidly, hating him even more for his quick rejection of the one genuine emotion that he’d probably ever felt.
She’d liked his wife, really liked her, and as far as she could feel regret, she regretted the pain of her last few days. Neither of them had understood the need for her painful markings, or the public theatricality of her death. Stevan promised he would ask when they got back to London.
Leighton yawned widely and fell from his side onto his back, beckoning her to lie above him, with her feet to his, bringing her head barely to his chin. He liked the way the size difference made him feel; male and female, and him with all the power. He yawned widely and stretched his arms overhead. “I’m tired, pet. Let’s sleep for a bit, OK?”
Older man, longer recovery. But her thoughts stayed silent and she nodded up at him submissively, and then climbed off the bed, walking to the wardrobe to put on her robe. He smiled sleepily and star-fished across the bed, teasing her. Then he moved to one side, lying back with his arms behind his head, and started to doze. Kaisa smiled wryly at his sleeping position, how convenient; at least she didn’t have to turn him over for access.
His breathing was gentle at first, deepening quickly into a rasping sleep. She knelt down urgently at the change in sound, reaching into her ready prepared bag and withdrawing the clear phial of fluid, and its delivery system. She moved slowly to the bed and nudged his knee to test his sleep, first gently and then more roughly. Then finally, she slapped his face hard with her open hand, eliciting no response. The drugs disguised in dinner had finally rendered him helpless.
The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) Page 11
